the climb

Some people traveled to warm tropical destinations this spring break, while others may have opted for skiing or international trips. We didn’t. I wouldn’t even call it a staycation, as we didn’t do much unless you count my reluctantly taking Emmett to the 9/11 Museum upon his request, which was as far removed from typical vacation material as a New Yorker who experienced it firsthand can get, but whatever.

I tried hard to balance my feelings this week as we look towards a horizon filled with light, something that hasn’t been possible for years – Sid is coming home in May. He will return almost eleven months to the day since he left. That’s wild when you think about it. Essentially, it’s been an entire year. I’ve been clinging to this aspect of the future, this reality that doesn’t quite feel real yet, but it’s getting there, and the realness is infused with fierce maternal joy, excitement, and a lot of anxiety that comes with years of heartache. All of it is natural, and the core of it is that my baby is coming home.

But first, there was this spring break—the first ever without Sid. I tried hard not to scroll through pictures of previous years, our trips out west with family, tide pool hopping, and the scent of sagebrush and eucalyptus. It was also Emmett’s birthday—another first without his brother, another emptiness-filled milestone.

I don’t think it’s a secret that I’ve struggled. I am pretty skilled at masking it most of the time. I’ve functioned even at some of the hardest moments in the past few years. I’ve gone to work, cared for my children, and stocked my medicine chest with all the typical things that anxious and depressed people rely on to stay afloat. We looked at our family’s grand total of mental health costs for 2023 recently, and let me tell you that I could be inviting you over to my bought-with-cash townhouse in Brooklyn (had we paid it all – thank you insurance, even if you are ridiculously expensive). I consider myself a sarcastically hopeful person, but the first half of my forties have taken their toll. I can work my way through some of the heaviness on good days. This week was indicative of that.

So, if you ask me what I did this spring break, I only have one answer for you: I ran. I ran every single day. I set an alarm even when I didn’t have to. I slept in my running clothes to help me get out the door. I ran through sleepiness and sadness and ignored my grouchy right hip. I ran through layers of negative thoughts, defeatist thinking, self-anger, and grief. I ran until suddenly, three-quarters up a giant hill at the sixth of seven miles that I was so slowly forcing myself up, something inside me popped.

My hard breathing found a heavy but steady rhythm. My arms and legs moved through the air, the heaviness gone. I felt a lightness; all the physical and mental aches stopped. I pushed and pushed until I reached the top of the hill, and facing east, my eyes met the rising sun, and I thought to myself, I’m motherfucking strong.

I’ve spent four years unable to find a horizon line. I’ve spent four years stuck, unable to move. But right now, I’m running. I’m breathing. I’m pushing. And I’m moving. The world is moving, and so am I. I didn’t think that I would make it – out of bed this morning, up this hill, to this point in my life – but I’m here, and my blood is pumping, and I can feel the breeze on my arms and the thump of my heart and, tiny but rising, a fountain of hope.

This post is brought to you by the woman who accidentally signed up for three half marathons in April/May instead of one. Our sponsor hopes that she will finish at least one of them without having to walk.